


Two of a Kind

by compo67



Series: Punzel Verse [23]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Family Feels, Feels, Field Trip, Gen, Guilt, HIV/AIDS, M/M, Nosebleed, Shame, Siblings, Timestamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-03 22:56:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5310227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tristan manages his health and life on a day to day basis. Unfortunately, the real world has no such accommodation; neither does Jensen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two of a Kind

Out on the pier, Tristan and Jensen share garlic fries and a few beers on a Wednesday afternoon.

Chilled bottles clink together every time they open new ones. Garlic and cheese leave their fingers greasy, but it wipes off just fine on their jeans with the help of condensation on the bottles. Most of their catching up passes between them in easy snippets.

A salty, refreshing breeze from the coast livens things up on the pier. Twenty feet away, a young woman chases after a few scattered pieces of paper. Fifty feet off in the distance, a poodle appears ready to fly off into the sky, leading its concerned owner to scoop it up in their arms. Towels on the beach flutter in response and agitate their bikini-clad occupants.

Just another day in Santa Monica.

Tourists remain easily spotted in the crowds pacing through the pier and beach. They carry heavy bags of overpriced California shit hawked to them by creative street vendors and desperate shop clerks. Tourists have always been a source of intrigue for Tristan.

There weren’t any tourists in his part of Texas. Everyone was local, and if they weren’t, something was wrong. Strangers were immediately given the Southern third degree—where you from, what’s your family name, what church, what’s the story you got to tell? Tristan hated it. No matter where he went in Texas it was the same round of questions; people wanted to know who his momma and daddy were, if he had siblings, if he went to church every Sunday, if he knew how to handle a truck.

No one goes out of their way to question or even speak to tourists in California.

After a few mistakes, it was easy to blend in. He learned quick, kept his head down, and dropped the drawl that instantly outed him as a Southerner. It didn’t matter that he was from Texas and not Alabama; West Coasters can’t tell the difference. A Southern accent is a Southern accent and Californians have notoriously dismissed him as a hillbilly unfit to wipe his own ass.

When he speaks to Jensen, the drawl peeks out, especially after a few beers and garlicky boats.

Last week Jensen paid. This week Tristan covered them. Three beers each, two boats to split. He made Jensen order though; the girl working the afternoon shift at the garlic fries stand has a crush on Jensen and usually comps him a boat. She did not fail them today.

“Practice after this?” Tristan takes a swig from his last bottle, trying to make it last. He’s not drunk, but a pleasant, warm buzz begins to seep into his senses. Perfect trumpet playing mood.

“Can’t,” Jensen answers, still on his second beer, peeling the label like always. “Bailey… sounds like shit went down.”

“What kinda shit?”

The tone Jensen had when talking about work transforms into something ten times more serious, sentences slipping out in fragments, like he doesn’t know how to piece together the words. “Been a rough week. Jeff’s been gone on business. It’s midterms.”

“Shit, how’s class going?”

“Fine.” Jensen knocks back a longer swig. “It’s all crap I know. And… well, it’s just multiple choice or some essay stuff. I can study at work. But… you know, it’s not so easy for Jared.”

“Oh.” A seagull waddles nearby, searching for giveaways. Tristan doesn’t yield. “Must be tough,” he mutters, unsatisfied with his response but lacking anything else.

Nodding, Jensen continues. “He has to write a paper and present a midterm project. I’ll find him in the kitchen baking at two in the morning. He says it’s the only time he gets to study or have the kitchen to himself.”

Tristan has seen where these people live. People he knows of but doesn’t actually know. His nephew and nieces—Bailey, Hailey, and Kaylee—and their second set of parents, Misha and Jeff. But he’s never been inside their house. It sounds packed, with four adults and three kids, but Jensen never gives the impression that he’s cramped or unhappy there. At least, Tristan has never seen him act that way.

“Aside from Jared being weird,” Tristan sighs, “what’s up with Bailey?”

Cue dad face.

Jensen’s brow furrows, his lips purse, and his eyes snap from easy going to completely on guard. Tristan has wondered numerous times if Jensen knows he makes that face whenever the kids and a serious topic come up. It’s a face similar to the expressions rich ladies at the bar make when they talk about how someone almost beat them to the very last Louis Vitton bag at the boutique.

Miya makes the same face when she talks about her kid, though Tristan knows she knows it.

The guy sitting next to him happens to still be completely unaware of his father bear expression.

Setting down his beer and clasping his hands together, elbows on his knees, Jensen sighs. “Earlier this week Jared made dinner. I think it was spaghetti. Anyway, the kids have their colors, right? Makes it easier when there are three sets of dishes to keep track of and everyone wants their own. Bailey’s plates are blue, Hailey’s are purple, and Kaylee’s are pink.”

“Yeah.” Tristan polishes off his third beer. “So y’all had dinner.”

“Right. We had dinner. Jared served the kids on their plates and then us on our plates. Bailey gets to the table and says he’s not gonna eat.”

“Picky eater?”

“Not at all. None of them are.”

“That’s lucky.”

“Yeah, but… you know, we though okay, maybe he doesn’t want spaghetti. So Jared offers him a sandwich. A hot dog. A bowl of cereal. Then I stepped in and said if he doesn’t wanna eat, no one’s gonna make him.”

“Seems fair.”

With a nod, Jensen holds his hands out. “But Jared can’t drop it. He starts asking—what’s wrong? Don’t feel well? Did you eat a snack earlier? And I’m like… let it go. Kid doesn’t wanna eat, don’t make him eat. If he gets hungry later, that’s his fault.”

“Let me guess—Jared couldn’t let that happen.”

“Nope. But I saw Bailey going from annoyed to upset and Jared… the kid’s not gonna starve if he skips a meal. Maybe he did eat a snack and he’s just not gonna fess up to it. Whatever. Not the end of the world. So I’m about to say something to him when…” Jensen looks down at the sand, tension clear in his shoulders. “…Bailey just knocks over the plate and screams he doesn’t want that plate.”

Kids have never been Tristan’s forte or area of expertise. He couldn’t handle a twin brother, much less a child in his care. Miya’s kid, Kevin, can tolerate Tristan’s company but it doesn’t always work the other way around. That fact only further solidified their friendship instead of any relationship. They tried a few times to make it work, just to see.

But this is different. These aren’t the children of a friend or a partner.

They’re his blood relatives.

And it’s still somewhat strange to think that.

Without meeting them at all, he knows their personalities from the stories Jensen has told. He knows who likes what current kids’ trend, who hates syrup on their pancakes, who loves snapping rubber bands and can’t be trusted with them anymore, and who brings home spiders and centipedes from the outside to play with inside. He knows that Kaylee gets up to pee almost every morning at exactly four thirty and often wakes up Jensen to take her to the bathroom because the dark hallway frightens her.

Hailey’s favorite person to call on the phone happens to be Grandma Hannah, Jensen’s mother. She could talk for hours on the phone with Hannah, being six years old, going on fifty.

And out of all the tales, jokes, and epics Jensen has shared, Tristan knows Bailey is and always has been the good kid—quiet, polite, shy, and affectionate.

Any mention of the kids ignites a spark in Jensen’s eyes. But it’s always been clear to Tristan that Bailey and Jensen have been tight since day one.

“He table flipped,” Tristan says, awed. “He pulled a Housewife of New Jersey.”

“Don’t remind me of that show,” Jensen grumbles. “But yeah, he just… lost it. I’ve never seen him angry. Upset, yeah. Bothered, definitely. But this was complete rage.”

“Over a plate or what was on the plate?”

“The plate.”

“Weird.”

“You’re telling me.”

Tristan leans back and stretches out his legs. “So what’d y’all do? Ground him?”

Frowning, Jensen shakes his head. “No. We don’t like isolating them when they act out.”

“How wise.”

“Shut up,” Jensen quips with the hint of a smile. “Anyway, I hauled him upstairs and we had a weird talk.”

“He’s six, how was it weird?”

“He was… instantly sorry. Like, he apologized and hugged me and cried that mommy was gonna hate him.” Another seagull walks by, trying to act casual. Jensen pays it no attention. “And it wasn’t even to get out of trouble, you know? He said he would stay in his room forever and skip every dessert if mommy wasn’t mad at him.”

“So he folded.”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“I don’t know,” Jensen exhales, holding his hands up in question. “How was I gonna punish a kid who wants to be punished? I told him… you know, what he did was wrong, we don’t do things like that, mommy would never hate him, and we need to talk about our feelings instead of… doing _that_.”

“You’re a real god damn Spock, huh?”

“Fuck you.”

“No thanks.”

“Ugh. Can I finish my story?”

“Hey man, ain’t no one stoppin’ you.”

“Yeah, right. Anyway.” Another long pull of his beer and Jensen finishes his second. “I got it out of him that he didn’t want the blue plate. He wanted the pink plate.”

Foamy water on the shore line extends out, forming ivory loops over the sand. Cooler August weather doesn’t deter anyone from enjoying the beach for as long as possible. Hell, even in December there will be some poor, desperate souls swimming and dreaming of July. Tristan cleans his hands off on a few spare napkins Jensen grabbed at the last minute—pure habit that comes from fathering three kids. And, Tristan figures, habit hammered into him by Jared. That kid could never stand messy eaters.

“All that over the color of his plate?”

Jensen stretches out. His jeans almost match Tristan’s, except his have a few faint Crayola marks across the thighs. The navy shirt he wears also shows signs of the same kind of survival; a section of the v-neck shows some distortion, likely from being pulled and tugged on whenever he holds a kid in his arms.

“He was… upset,” Jensen says, methodically. “I’ve never seen him that way.”

“Maybe Jared’s cooking just sucks.” Tristan tries a joke mostly because he hasn’t got any parenting advice, or any advice overall, worth beans.

“Dude.” Jensen tries to protest, but there’s the hint of a smile, so Tristan relaxes.

“Just trying to offer some perspective.” Shifting around, he checks his phone for the time then tucks it back into his pocket. “So, what’d y’all end up doing and what are y’all gonna do now?”

Tristan was never involved in discipline with Kevin. It wasn’t his place, and honestly, he had no idea what to do whenever Kevin acted out. Kevin can be described as… spirited and… energetic. In other words—trouble for anyone but his mother. All of Tristan’s personal experience with discipline could never be applied to any kid. He was fairly sure Miya didn’t want him shouting at Kevin, telling him his soul was going to hell, and forcing him to read the Bible for two hours or get the switch.

He doubts that Jared’s style of parenting involves any of that. Not that Jensen would allow it, anyway.

“Well,” Jensen starts, running a hand through his hair, “that night Jeff and I talked to him. You know, manners and stuff. But he was so worried about Jared hating him. Why would he think that?”

Gathering up their empty bottles, Tristan can’t help but shrug again. “Dunno. Maybe he’s just not used to being in trouble. Has Kaylee ever worried about anyone hating her?”

“No.”

“So there you go.”

Unsatisfied with this, Jensen frowns again. He pulls his knees up and looks out at the coast. “I guess I can see that… sorta. But why would he act out in the first place? Ugh, it’s like some weird chicken and the egg thing I can’t figure out. Jared’s freaking out. Misha’s been calling every parenting expert in the world. And Jeff seems to think it’s just a fluke. Am I obsessing?”

“He’s your kid, obsessing’s probably a thing that you do.”

“Am I boring you?”

“Fuck no. But are you gonna finish that beer?”

Finally, Jensen laughs like usual. He tosses his head back to do so. The crinkles around his eyes apparent. “Okay, okay. You just wanna get smashed so I don’t drone on about kids. I get it.”

“That and I’m just thirsty.”

“What time is it?”

“Eh, little past three. Gah. Fucking bottle.”

“Give it here.”

“Hell no, I got this.”

“Okay, I’ll just watch the shit show about to happen.”

Grumbling, Tristan continues to fight with the bottle. “Unf… you’ll see… nothing can… defeat me. I’m a bartender… argh!”

Jensen knocks their shoulders together. “C’mon, let me loosen it for you.”

“Fine,” Tristan huffs and shoves the bottle back at Jensen. “This is just because I don’t have my lucky bottle opener.”

“It’s a twist top,” Jensen cackles. The traitorous bottle pops open. “Here you go, douchebag.”

“Thanks, asshole.”

“You sure you’re okay to have another?”

“Give me some credit. No bartender worth his salt goes under the table three beers in.”

“Yeah, but I’m not driving your sorry ass home.”

“Ain’t going home after this. Going to practice.”

“That’s right, you said that. Sorry.”

Waving Jensen off, Tristan gulps down half of the final beer. “Whatever. Miya’s gonna kick your ass for not showing up.”

With their conversation shifting to topics outside parenthood, Jensen sprawls out a little more, his sneakers pointing up at the cloudless sky. He tilts his head towards Tristan and knocks out a wide, easy smile. “She’ll kick yours for drinking all that beer.”

Yet another seagull scrounges around their patch of sand and pebbles in hopes for some generosity. Tristan shoos it off the second it gets a little too friendly, just like he chases off the bar flies at work. Finished with that important work, he shoots Jensen a glare. “I’m not gonna get caught, asshole. Besides, I have six hours until my next dose. Plenty of time to work this out of my system.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m Texan. You underestimate my ability to drink.”

“Jared drinks a glass of wine and he’s a goner.”

“Well, my brother’s a lightweight. Always has been.”

“Oh yeah, I’m _so_ much more impressed by your ability to drink a lot without anyone noticing.”

Clapping one hand against his thigh, Tristan laughs. “As you should be!”

They sit in silence for the next few minutes. It’s a silence that started out as awkward, but has settled into something they each understand—the silence between two introverts. Besides, Tristan muses, his hands behind his back as he sits on the pier, the beach hardly knows the definition of silence. The waves make their soothing, repetitive touch over the sand. Behind them, the boardwalk shops continue their business, and both tourists and locals talk a little too loud on their cellphones.

Tristan mulls over the events at Jensen’s. Kevin has thrown tantrums over odd things, but Tristan can’t entirely fault him. As a kid he argued for more play time and less chores; those mini-rebellions seem reasonable, until shoes and Crayons start flying.

But the color of a plate? From a kid who, in every story told by his dad, has been the most mild-mannered, easy to please kid since birth?

Although Bailey was the largest sibling at birth, he gave the least amount of trouble. According to Jensen, Kaylee, the smallest baby, was the troublemaker throughout the entire pregnancy. It was her fidgeting and fighting for space that caused Jared enough pain to rush him to the ER. Jensen downplays the entire thing, but taking Jared to the ER and staying with him cost him his job at Disney.

Not that it was a bad thing at all.

Who’d want to work for the Mouse anyway?

Anaheim was shitty, too. Jensen had some kind of fondness for it, but Tristan couldn’t see why. Everything in Anaheim revolves around The Fucking Happiest Place on Earth. The Denny’s a mile down the road from the main parking lot serves its pancake plates with one large pancake and two smaller pancakes suspiciously arranged like a certain licensed character. Every hotel—even the ones that look like they haven’t painted since the seventies—offers a Disney package. It’s inescapable, even in the cheaper areas of Anaheim. Most of the people in the apartment building he lived in worked for Disney in some capacity, at some point in time.

Landa, a fifty-three year old grandmother of five who shared a two bedroom apartment with her son, his girlfriend and all their kids, used to work overnights at the park. She didn’t know Jensen or Jared in her time at the park, before moving onto work at one of the resorts.

All she knew about Tristan was that for a while, he lived himself, and one day, he didn’t.

Everyone had their fights and arguments in that building. With the walls thin as cardboard, all the neighbors knew some of each other’s business. The two young men who looked alike caught Landa’s attention. And Tristan knew she noticed when Jared left.

A month after, she was the one who let herself into his apartment, and found him in his room. He remembers laying on the floor, only one of his legs on the bed, wrapped in a filthy sheet. It was the sheet that bothered him the most; it was uncomfortably warm, like a snake squeezing around his torso.

It wasn’t like he didn’t know what happened.

The problem was he didn’t care.

At the resort, the maids handled wellness checks in teams of two. Landa decided she was too old to put up with Tristan’s shit. She rolled him over, shoved two fingers down Tristan’s throat, cleared out the vomit that had lingered there for who knows how long, and called 911.

This is how life has unfolded in California.

“Holy shit,” Jensen gasps, scrambling to his hands and knees. “Dude, your nose…”

Tristan lifts his hand to his nose. He shrugs and sighs, scooting a few inches away from Jensen. The shock of crimson is neither new nor alarming to him. Jensen, on the other hand, treats it like cardiac arrest.

“It’s fine.” He grabs one of the crumpled up napkins from the empty fry boats and presses it to his nose. “Just a side effect.”

“Pinch your nose. Tilt your head forward.” Too late. Jensen rockets into dad mode. “Here, press a bottle to the back of your neck. You’ve probably been in the sun too long.”

“No,” Tristan corrects, “it’s a side effect. Blood vessels and shit. Look, it’ll stop in a minute.”

“It’s already been a minute.”

“Okay, so another minute.”

“You’re dripping.”

“Yeah, that sorta happens.”

“Like… really dripping.”

“Who is supposed to be comforting who?”

“Gushing, Tristan, your nose is gushing blood.”

“Stop it,” Tristan snaps, making direct eye contact with Jensen. Blood runs down his mouth, leaving behind a familiar, metallic taste. It runs in rivers down his chin and onto his shirt, splattering whenever he lets go of his nose for a second and pinches. “I’m not a kid, man. If you wanna help, just grab me some more napkins.”

He expects Jensen to listen.

Napkins are a good idea.

But Jensen slips a handkerchief from his back pocket, holds it in his right hand, and moves forward to replace the napkin with it instead.

Out of necessity and instinct, Tristan smacks his hand away.

“Don’t touch me when I’m bleeding!” Tristan growls. “You’re a fucking gardener, god dammit.”

“I’m trying to help,” Jensen barks back, holding his ground. “And what the hell, Tristan? How long have you been having these nosebleeds? It’s been more than a minute and I don’t see you getting any fucking better.”

“So back the hell off.” Muscling away from Jensen, Tristan bleeds over one of the garlic boats while he switches hands to pinch the bridge of his nose. At least there’s no blood on the sand. With conversation finished for the moment, Tristan closes his eyes and centers his focus. At first he pleads with his body—clot. Just clot. Clot and this will all be over. Clot and people will stop staring, Jensen will stop freaking out, and life can go on as usual. He can continue to ignore any and all harsh realities.

Pleading ultimately fails.

He concentrates on the warm sensation of his blood running down his hand and face, dripping into the poor cardboard boat. Even someone HIV positive couldn’t touch him without medical gloves; he debates calling Miya anyway. Except, his phone is still in his pocket and out of reach.

Panic begins to work its way up his throat—or that could also be nausea—and anxiety tethers onto him, forming knots in every major muscle. What did he do last time this happened? He can’t remember. Fuck. Why can’t he remember? Maybe because it happened at three in the morning, when it was pitch black and he knocked over his lamp in his panic. Maybe it was also because he sneezed and sprayed a gush of blood all over the carpet. Who the fuck still puts down carpet in California?

A cold bottle of water presses down on the back of his neck.

The hand that holds it, holds it unquestionably sound and steady.

Next, a second hand presses a damp napkin to his forehead.

“I have no idea what to do,” a low, somber voice rumbles. “And it’s not just about Bailey. I have no idea what to do about… you.” Jensen folds the napkin and presses it once more to Tristan’s forehead. His touch stays cautious, but insistent. “When Jared asks me where I am and what I’m doing, I don’t like keeping secrets. And really, this… seeing you… it shouldn’t be a secret.”

Blue plate.

Did they give him that because he wanted a blue plate or because it meant something else?

“You asked me to keep this between us, so I did. But now this. It’s. I just. I hated your guts, Tristan.”

A clot passes, falling into the boat, slimy and black. Tristan’s stomach turns at the leech-like sight of it. He can’t throw up. No way to clean that mess. This? He can handle. He’ll just throw the boats into a plastic bag and dispose of the bag himself. No threat of infection. Piece of cake.

Piece of cake to hold his shoulders still against the solid wall of Jensen’s voice.

“I hated you for everything you did before I met Jared and everything you did after. I asked myself over and over again—who does this to their brother? And you know what? I believed we were all better off… just… living separate lives and shit.”

Blue plate special. Blue plate lobster. Blue plate meatloaf.

“I thought all of that until maybe two years back. Hailey wanted to know what forgiveness was. Should she forgive her sister for smashing her doll house? What if she didn’t want to forgive her? What if she wanted to be mad because she felt mad? What was so wrong with that?”

Jensen switches out the bottles. He must have bought several. This time, he opens up the last one and pours it slowly over the back of Tristan’s neck. Arterial streams trickle into Tristan’s shirt, cooling him down all over. He can’t hear the row of pinball machines down the pier, vendors hawking sunglasses, or tourists arguing about where to go for dinner.

Was this what it was like for Jared in the delivery room?

Was all he heard the sound of Jensen’s voice?

“I told my little girl that if she felt mad, great, be mad. Run around. Scream. Color an angry picture with nothing but red Crayon. But the second you don’t feel mad anymore, that’s when you forgive your sister and ask her to help you build a new doll house.”

All hands disappear.

All bleeding ceases.

And a single handkerchief floats onto Tristan’s knee.

“I’ve stopped being mad at you, Tristan. I want to build a new doll house with you. But we can’t do that without Jared.”

Tristan gingerly sits up, tilting his head back. His hands shake when he picks up a water bottle and begins makeshift cleanup. All over his shirt and inside the cardboard boat lie rust colored tracks to a lifetime of coping and struggle.

He replies to Jensen in an uneasy whisper.

“What… what if he doesn’t wanna play with me?”

Like a mind reader, Jensen passes over a plastic bag so Tristan can start cleanup. He uses a tone strikingly similar to his dad tone—firm, comforting, and assuring.

“You’re not gonna know unless you try. Unless we try.”

It’s that we that makes all the difference.

 

Miya enjoys sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.

Especially during dinner that night, where no one can escape the dining room table at her apartment without finishing every grain of rice on their plate. Both Kevin and Tristan have already experienced the consequences from trying. It’s not worth it.

“If your brother wasn’t already married to Jensen, you’d probably move right in on that.” She pours Tristan another glass of water. “Did he really give you his handkerchief?”

Kevin pouts across from Tristan at the table. He pokes his pile of seaweed salad. Tristan can practically see the images of cheeseburgers bouncing around in his head. Not that he would blame the kid. Miya’s cooking changed last year when she dated a nutritionist. Since then, she’s forgotten that cheeseburgers and fries are an essential food group for young boys and men in their twenties.

Baked salmon, seaweed salad, and steamed carrots aren’t horrible… they’re just not… appetizing to anyone under the age of seventy.

“He gave me his handkerchief to bleed on,” Tristan grumbles and takes a swig of water. “Not as a token of his undying love.”

“Someone has a crush. And oh!” Miya gasps. “On your distant twin brother’s husband! This is like a soap opera, Tris. I bet all of this ends up in a menage-et-tois.”

“First of all, that's not how you pronounce it and second—no.”

“I wonder if Jensen has ever fantasized about you know what.”

“No, I don’t know what.”

“The twin thing.”

“Could we _please_ talk about something else?”

Rolling her eyes, Miya refills Tristan’s glass. She uses a clear pitcher with a red flower on it. It was her mother’s. Somehow, the pitcher made the journey with her from rural Japan all the way to California. “Eat up. Both of you. Don’t think that I don’t see your forks pushing things around.”

Tristan picks at his food and doesn’t mention the numerous times she refills his glass.

But he doesn’t let one topic go.

“I don’t have a crush on Jensen.”

Miya tilts her head and challenges him with a smirk. “You don’t, huh?”

“No.” Pushing his plate away, Tristan looks anywhere but at Miya or Kevin. Their apartment is as familiar to him as his own. She cleaned and painted every inch of the two bedroom place the day she moved in. By then, Kevin was already three. Being seven years old now affords him the luxury of mimicking Tristan by pushing his plate away as well.

However, one look from his mother and Kevin continues eating at a snail’s pace.

“You know I’m teasing,” Miya offers. “You two just seem to get along really well lately.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s nice.”

“Who?”

“Jensen, stupid.”

“Oh, oh yeah.”

“Nicer than you probably expected, huh?”

“Well, when I knew him in Anaheim he probably would’ve been happy dancing on my grave.”

Cue another roll of the eyes. Miya sighs. “Jensen’s not the kind of person who would do that, you drama queen. We all make mistakes.”

“Yeah,” Tristan grumbles, followed by a short, sharp laugh. “Except my mistakes were the size of the Grand Canyon.”

“Jensen might be a link to your brother, Tris, but he’s not your actual brother.”

“I know that.”

“Then you’re probably aware you’re putting Jensen in a precarious situation.”

“Since when do you use the word ‘precarious’?”

“Since meeting you.”

Tristan plucks a stray threat from the hem of his shirt. “Nothing’s going on between us. My brother’s got nothing to worry about there.”

Miya excuses Kevin from the table, releasing him from the last portion of salmon and salad. She eats it instead and afterwards hefts over her pill pack, a sight as familiar to Tristan as his own. Their doses and meds share some similarities. Each pill sits with its comrades inside the plastic pack, every one a precious gem. Insurance, state aid, government subsidies—all of that still doesn’t guarantee one damn thing.

As she plucks the first two pills out of their pocket, Miya speaks in a more serious tone. “You ever wonder what life might be like without all of this?”

“All of what?” he asks, but he knows the answer.

“This. Popping pills. Revolving doors at the doctor’s office. Worrying about it every second of every day even though you know it’s not going anywhere.” She brushes a piece of long, onyx hair back behind her ear. “Maybe I deserved this.”

The urge to slam his fist on the table and start yelling for her to snap out of it rushes through him.

Surprisingly, to both of them, Tristan manages to remain calm. His response filters out in a mutter. “No one deserves this.”

A knowing smile appears and bright violet eyes tease. “Not even an ex-junkie like me?”

“Shut your hole,” he banters back, returning the smile. Leaning back in his chair, Tristan stretches out, hands behind his head. “I deserve a lot of shit. My job, for one, because like hell could I be bothered to finish high school. Your friendship, for another, because like hell was I gonna hang around decent people.” Miya kicks him and he kicks back. “And I… I deserve my brother never forgiving me, because well, maybe I should’ve tried a little more to be less of a shit head.”

“But you don’t deserve _this_?”

“I don’t deserve HIV.”

“Wow,” Miya chirps. “Listen to you.”

Despite the attempts not to smile, Tristan gives in. He picks up their plates while Miya kicks back her night time regiment. With care, he sets the dishes in the sink.

She was just out of rehab. He was just out of Anaheim. Everyone in the group had a similar story. She used and shared needles. He had sex and didn’t really care much about protection or any other detail. Some people had sex with men; some people just used the wrong needle at the right time.

What Tristan still finds odd is that it only took one prick of a needle or one thrust inside another body.

This isn’t the type of disease that builds over time out of genetics.

“Kevin has a field trip next month,” Miya announces, walking into the kitchen. Her bare feet pad along quietly on the tile floor. “Same day I have two gigs lined up, go figure.”

The dishes look back at him expectantly. Three plates. Three sets of silverware. One pan and one pot.

He could just as easily walk away from the sink and take their discussion to the living room.

“I can take him.”

Tristan turns the water on and picks up a lime green sponge.

For a second he thinks to himself—wow, look at me.

 

A month zips by faster than a seagull launching itself at a piece of hot dog on the beach.

Working overtime guarantees a larger share of tips and helps Tristan stock up on meds. He pockets some cash away, stuffing it into the Mason jar underneath his bed every time Freddy passes out paychecks and tip jar funds. After his pill carrier fills up and the rent on his tiny apartment gets paid, he invests in a small tattoo on his back to join the others.

Once Labor Day passes—in a flurry of Tristan working double and triple shifts—Santa Monica bears witness to a whole new class of second graders.

Waiting an entire summer not to be a measly first grader on the bottom of the elementary school hierarchy was practically torture. Kevin barely says goodbye to Miya and Tristan when they drop him off on the first day. Equipped with his Ninja Turtles backpack, he launches towards the familiar brick building, disappearing into the mass of children. Fortunately, Kevin approaches school with the same excitement and intensity every day after the first. Tristan can’t say he ever looked forward to anything with that much enthusiasm.

“It’s because he’s half Asian,” Miya quips the night before the field trip. “He gets that from me, you know.”

Leaning against the charcoal counter, Tristan huffs. “You better hope that’s all he gets from you or you’re gonna hate ages thirteen to forty.” He watches Miya roll up shrimp sushi as fast as any chef. Single motherhood requires speed and efficiency.

Her hands work without any hesitation. “Not _my_ kid. He’s gonna grow up to graduate top of his class from Harvard. You’ll see—twenty years from now I’ll call your shaggy ass and tell you to suck it.”

“Well, no pressure, right?” Tristan steals a roll, watching his fingers and her knife. “And you don’t have to wait twenty years to tell me to suck anything.”

“…you slept over last night.”

“Yeah.”

“On my couch.”

“Was I supposed to use the tub?”

“I don’t mind you crashing.”

“Okay?”

“I’m just saying.”

“Right.”

“You can sleep with me tonight. More comfortable than the couch.”

“Is this a test? Because I was never given a study guide.”

“Please,” Miya sighs, rolling her eyes. “Even though I’m a woman I can somehow restrain myself from throwing myself at you if you share my bed.”

“Well thanks but no thanks.”

“You’re dumb, Tristan.”

“So’s your face.”

“Ugh, whatever.” Not in any kind of a gentle manner, Miya sets down the knife. “You talk to Jensen yet?”

“Since when did Jensen become any of your business?”

The sushi knife swings over, steady in Miya’s hand. Her eyes flash a message he can’t translate. With the blade pointed at his intestines, she speaks, words poured out even and low. “You fucked up when you turned your back on your brother.” The message sharpens, coming to the forefront. She could gut him in ten seconds flat and make sushi out of him for her own lunch.

Shoulders back, chin out, Tristan matches the tone of her voice with his body.

No one throws his mistakes in his face. Does she think he doesn’t know he fucked up? Or that he sugar coats what happened? Does she believe he deludes himself that Jared—pregnant, frightened, and naïve—slept on benches, in bus stops, and shelters where he was always, always vulnerable prey? Yeah, Jared made friends with the lady at the waffle house and a few others here and there. But what was friendship when you were waiting on your twin brother to get his head out of his ass and let you sleep on his couch?

He should have given up his bed.

He should have done a lot of things.

Glinting, the knife tilts to leer at his throat. She holds the knife close to her, not at all near him, but what’s the difference of a few feet when all it would take is seconds to shutter that distance?

“You treated him like shit because you were too insecure, too self-involved, too selfish to care about anyone’s ass but your own.”

Where’s the lie?

“And you didn’t care when he left or where he was all this time after because finally—you were just fine and dandy fucking up on your own.”

Does she need to lay it out so hard?

“You thought—good riddance. No responsibilities. No one looking at you like a freak show. No whiny, annoying brother to care for or give a shit about.”

Miya taps her chin with the tip of the knife and raises an eyebrow. “Huh,” she says, leaning back against her portion of countertop. “That doesn’t sound like the Tristan I know today, standing at me looking like a damn fool.”

Effortlessly, Miya bags up Kevin’s lunch and hands it to Tristan.

“Put that in the fridge and let’s get to bed. I’m tired and you owe me a foot rub.”

Before she leaves the kitchen entirely, she adds, “Take your pills. A lot’s changed in five years.”

 

Field trips in Texas were never fun.

Their elderly, frail teachers would corral the class through a tour of a cardboard box factory, or the floor of a light bulb factory and expect each child to return to school renewed and refreshed.

Tristan usually tried to figure out the faster route to ditch the class and find employees out back he could bum a cigarette off of.

“It’ll be fun,” he lies to Kevin in the ride to their destination. “When I was your age I loved field trips.”

Gloomy and unconvinced, Kevin continues to pout in the backseat, hands politely clasped in his lap. He utters a barely audible protest. “I don’t like field trips.”

Miya already paid the twenty-five bucks for her son to wander through the Santa Monica Museum of Flying and she’s determined to get her money’s worth. In addition to whatever homework assignment Kevin’s teacher doles out, Miya expects a half-page essay about his favorite plane. The kid has some rough times ahead of him; his mom doesn’t settle for what she calls “American education.”

“You’ll get to spend the whole day with your friends,” Tristan tries.

At the mention of friends, Kevin’s pout intensifies. Clearly, Tristan struck a nerve.

“We get to have lunch together. That’ll be fun.”

Kevin looks over at the seat next to him, where two brown bag lunches sit, filled with healthy options and nutritious snacks.

“I’ll buy you McDonald’s on the way home,” Tristan adds.

Finally, a smile graces the rear view mirror.

 

Last night was weird.

“Tristan.”

“What? Who is it?”

“It’s Miya, jackass. You’re snoring.”

“Huh? I don’t snore.”

“Shut up and roll over.”

“Don’t smack my ass.”

“Would if freak you out if I said that wasn’t my hand?”

“Boogey monster, quit tryin’ta hit on me.”

“Roll over.”

“No, I’m comfy. Quit poking my ribs.”

“I can’t sleep with you snoring like Gojira.”

“You said to sleep in your bed.”

“I was drunk.”

“You weren’t.”

“I was crazy.”

“You still are.”

“…your feet are cold.”

“Your bed’s too small.”

“I’m sorry I’m a tiny Asian girl.”

“Can I go back to sleep?”

“No! You’ll start snoring again!”

“What did I say about touching my ass?”

“Roll over, damn you.”

“You need a bigger bed.”

“You need to not be a gigantor.”

“I’m sorry I’m a gigantic white dude.”

“Ugh, no you’re not.”

“Go to sleep.”

“I can’t! You don’t know how I suffer! It’s like the walls are vibrating.”

“…oh shit.”

“Well, not really vibrating…”

“Fuck.”

“What?”

“Nose.”

“Again?”

“Just…”

“I’m getting up.”

“You’re… not wearing a shirt.”

“Pft… dudes. World could be ending and you’d stop just to look.”

“I’m not looking. I’m… noticing.”

“I got hot. I’m not used to sleeping next to six feet of human furnace.”

“Shit.”

“Hold on, hold on. Here. Press this on your forehead.”

“It’s not stopping.”

“Pinch.”

“Not helping.”

“Then get up and go to the bathroom. I’ll get ice.”

“…Miya.”

“What?”

“Dizzy.”

“Okay. I got you.”

“Sorry.”

“Shut up.”

“…”

“…this is the fifth one this week.”

“Uh huh.”

“You should call or go in.”

“I will.”

“I mean it. You got blood on my bed.”

“So? You’re a chick.”

“That is so gross! Ugh! Sleep on the couch—asshole.”

“Wait—just… can you… the faucet…”

“Don’t tilt your head back like some god damn turkey. Forward!”

“Mmph…”

“This is a lot of blood, Tristan.”

“…”

“Let me get my gloves.”

“Duntuchbed.”

“Hell no, you’re dealing with that later.”

“Ugh…”

“Let me pinch your schnoz. Man, you can’t clot worth a damn.”

“Mmph!”

“Relax. It’s slowing down.”

With her left hand, the clean glove, Miya splashed water on the side of his face. Blood turned a bright coral pink as it swirled down the drain. Unafraid, she kissed the top of his head.

“See, it stopped,” she murmured, releasing her hold on his nose. She cleaned up his bloody, pale face in the same efficiency as she rolled sushi.

Then they fell asleep on the couch in the living room.

 

The Santa Monica Flying Museum holds group tours and field trips at least twice a week.

Today, Kevin’s second grade class winds its way through the wide, white hallways into the center display area. Early Wright brothers planes sit nearby WWII fighter jets. The museum boasts an open layout and floor to ceiling windows that allow each plane to stretch out in comfort. Beamed ceilings provide some grounding to the adult chaperones shuffling after the kids. Upturned heads and excited pointing signify that the kids could care less about the beams; even Kevin marvels at the fire engine red Lockheed Vega.

Lunches were deposited into a bin at the front. Tristan resists the urge to pull out one of the Twix he keeps in his pocket for such emergencies. He had another bloody nose this morning and tending to it won out over eating breakfast.

Their college aged tour guide barely flinches at their group of fifteen second graders. She walks them through with enthusiasm, asking the kids questions, quizzing them, and occasionally making jokes only the adults laugh at. Tristan sticks close to Kevin. He says nothing when Kevin holds his hand as the guide asks for volunteers. From the strength of the grip, Tristan determines that Kevin would rather break into a plane and fly it the hell out of there instead of volunteer.

Once a victim giggles their way up to the bare engine on display, Kevin lets go.

No big deal.

The world of field trips becomes an intricate dance of socializing, one that Tristan has no interest in being part of. He watches the other chaperones and narrates their movements inside his head like the crocodile hunter. Here, we have one insecure middle-aged father attempt to get friendly with another dad by cracking a joke about car salesmen. Turns out that the other dad is a car salesman. Watch as the first father stammers out something that might be words, but sounds more like embarrassed grunts.

Fascinating. Really fascinating.

Tristan also judges other kids’ behavior. A little girl in pigtails won’t stop interrupting the tour guide to volunteer information about Amelia Earhart. Her outbursts might be more tolerable if she didn’t frantically wave her arm around to be called on, then go ahead and shout out her tidbit anyway.

Calm and shy, Kevin distances himself from his classmates. He seems less amused by them and more awed that these are his peers.

“Excuse me,” Tristan pipes up, interrupting pigtail girl. “Where’s your restroom?”

Thankful for the reprieve, the tour guide gives more detailed instructions than necessary just to talk in one, unbroken sentence for a change. Tristan nudges Kevin. They walk out of the main hall and down a few smaller ones until they reach a room with artwork, old school advertisements, and propaganda posters from WWII.

The room also happens to be empty of any other person, group, or guide.

“Guess we got lost,” Tristan murmurs.

“We did?”

“Yeah. No way I can remember how to get back now. Might as well stay here and look at this stuff.”

Relief floods Kevin’s expression. He walks over to a mural of fighter jets with the words “Fly Navy” scrawled in yellow at the top. Silently, Kevin reads the caption of information on a podium in the center of the wall. Tristan follows him to each attraction, hands in his pockets and in no rush.

Kevin might just be the reincarnation of a very serious, somber businessman from the way he conducts himself. Each piece of art receives its own careful attention. A few times, Kevin nods, as if agreeing with someone that why yes, the museum has expanded its collection of black and white photography from the early 1930’s.

Noises of screams, laughter, and shrieks of excitement shatter their tranquility.

Listening for their tour guide, Tristan figures out that another field trip has arrived, this one led by an older gentleman.

“Are we gonna be in trouble?” Kevin asks, tugging on Tristan’s shirt.

Shaking his head, Tristan replies, “Nah. We can blend into this class.”

Less than convinced, Kevin holds onto Tristan’s jeans, fingers curling, his black hair falling into his eyes and acting like a shield. This is the kid least likely to make a scene and he happens to be with the adult most likely to make one.

A new swarm of children around Kevin’s age arrive—robust and loud. It doesn’t take any story or explanation about why they were in this room; the tour guide looks like he’s about to unleash some aviation ass kicking on these kids. Tristan wants to stick around to see the geyser burst, but he can feel Kevin’s anxiety building from being around a class full of strangers.

“Tristan?”

That voice sounds familiar.

“The heck are you doing here?” Jensen walks up like it’s the Fourth of July and claps Tristan on the shoulder. “You’re not trying to learn for free, are you?”

Rolling his eyes, Tristan huffs, “Way to out me, man.”

“Ahem.” The tour guide clears his throat and glares daggers at them for talking during his speech. Awkwardly, Tristan and Jensen shuffle out of the room, followed by two small people.

“This is Kevin,” Tristan blurts out once they’re in the clear. “Kev, this is Jensen. He’s in our band.”

Words might be exiting Tristan’s mouth—and others around him may be talking—but it all falls away the second he lays eyes on the small person hefted up in Jensen’s arms. Jensen ducks the child down, setting them on the ground with care.

Holy fuck.

The kid is an exact copy of Jared.

“Kevin, this is Bailey,” Jensen says, comforting dad tone out in full. “Bailey, this is Kevin. What grade are you in, Kevin?”

“Second, sir,” Kevin replies dutifully, as if his mother might be around to gauge his degree of politeness.

Impressed by the sir, Jensen nods and smiles. “Second is a great grade. Bailey here just started first, right?”

Every inch of Bailey matches Jared. Except the eyes. They’re too blue to be Padalecki eyes. But the dimples, the nose, the hair, shit, even the wide-eyed wonder in which he looks at Tristan. From head to toe, he’s all Jared.

“Daddy,” Bailey whispers to Jensen, never taking his eyes off of Tristan, “why does he look like mommy?”

Bailey acts exactly the way Jensen talks about him in his stories—shy and quiet, but intensely curious. Is it creepy that Tristan has never met this kid and he knows a bunch of stuff about him? Like the time his sister Kaylee decided that the walls weren’t pretty enough so she convinced her siblings to draw all over them with makeup and nail polish. Or the time Bailey drew a picture of their house and family that was so good it stayed on the fridge for six months until Jared framed it.

Or how he prefers blackberry jam on his pancakes instead of syrup.

Or how he had the worst fever when he was small and Jensen helped him through it.

Or how he was the first one born and the first one Jensen held.

A myriad of emotions—some quite volatile, others disconcertingly unexpected—slams into Tristan’s chest cavity, pulling at the walls, tugging until he all but gasps.

How many birthday cards, Christmas cards, congratulations cards, rainy day cards, and any other holiday cards does Tristan owe his nephew?

His nephew.

Right here in front of him.

Not in any story, not in any daydream, not in the back of his mind—but here, actually within his grasp.

“Bay, this is Tristan.” Jensen’s eyes flit back and forth between child and adult. “He’s mommy’s brother.” Unsure how to proceed, Jensen adds, “They’re twins, kind of like you and the girls, so they look a lot alike.”

This is where Tristan would usually crack that he’s the better looking twin.

Every word in the English language fails him.

“You wanna say hi?” Jensen asks. Tristan has no idea to whom he’s talking to.

After a beat, Bailey lifts up one small hand and waves, despite the confused look on his face. “Hi.” He rests his head against Jensen’s shoulder, content to be held, even more content to allow the adults to do the talking.

Tristan takes a deep breath and somehow returns the wave. “Hi.”

Everything changes.

Except for the nosebleeds.

**Author's Note:**

> so sleepy. crashing. forgive the lame summary. 
> 
> love this pov. 
> 
> comments are love. <3


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